What passing-bells for these who die as
cattle ? |
Only the monstrous anger
of the guns. |
Only the stuttering rifles’ rapid
rattle |
Can patter out their hasty
orisons. |
No mockeries now for them ; no prayers
nor bells, |
Nor any voice of mourning
save the choirs, ― |
The shrill, demented choirs of wailing
shells ; |
And bugles calling for
them from sad shires.
|
What candles may be held to speed them
all ? |
Not in the hands of boys,
but in their eyes |
Shall shine the holy
glimmers of good-byes. |
The pallor of girls’ brows shall be
their pall ; |
Their flowers the
tenderness of patient minds, |
And each slow dusk a
drawing-down of blinds.
|
Wilfred Owen
| Classic Poems |
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[ Anthem for Doomed Youth ] [ Dulce et Decorum est ] [ Exposure ] [ Strange Meeting ] [ The Send-Off ] [ The Sentry ] |
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